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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29646966">Take A Slice</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>King GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Knight Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:00:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,070</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29646966</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by Glass Animals’ ‘Take A Slice’ and Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein;</p>
<p>Will update tags according to chapter mentions. Slow burn.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, George.”</p>
<p>This was not the same man he thought he knew. This, for a fact, was not the smiling face who adorned the night with laughter, who frolicked in the moor with him as a child, the man who would honorably mock anyone who dare defy George’s words. This was a demented man with delusional beliefs. A psychopath.</p>
<p>No, this was not Clay.</p>
<p>“Why are you here?”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Zak Ahmed/Darryl Noveschosch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Introductory</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story is not complete. (Thank you for who told me that by the way! I’m completely new to this site, and I wanted to exercise my writing skills.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I will be taking my time with this, I decided I want to step into this fandom and make some content. There will be no consistent uploading schedule or chapter length. Just whenever I feel like it. Gore, maybe smut (I haven’t written any before), and other possibly triggering themes will be mentioned. Keeping this Anon for a reason. Please don’t share this with CC’s, thank you. </p>
<p>(Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein?? Random, I know, but I read the book and it was pretty fascinating for a gothic novel. I see why it was popular. Graphic book though, heads up. But for those who like to learn new vocabulary I recommend checking it out.)</p>
<p>Stay safe, drink water. :)</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Greatest Tenderness</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which a glimpse of childhood is restored.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I went ahead and changed the description because it was way too yandere vibe which is less of what I’m going for and more of a psychotic feel.</p><p>Short chapter, tried to be descriptive and got a bit inspired from ‘The Secret Garden.’ </p><p>Hope you liked it, it’s past midnight though, so I’ll be off now. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Clay, NO-!”</p><p>    It came off as a light-hearted, pathetic whimper. A small boy, about the age of 11, collapsed onto the muddy grass, soiling his blouse. A somewhat taller blonde had him pinned down by the upper forearms, and they rolled off the grassy slope into the banks. Syrupy laughter sprung in the air, erupting from the children’s’ cores. It was a dreadfully hot morning, the cicadas buzzing in the forest beyond the bank and brook, that beyond the walls led into the village. </p><p>“Get OFF of me,” the brunette said in a playfully cross tone. “Get away!” </p><p>“Sorry Georgie, I’m having too much fun!” </p><p>    The boy holding the writhing complaining one deemed ‘Georgie’ gleefully laughed. Despite the horrid humidity, ‘Dash it all!’ George had cried out earlier pounding his fists at the sky, they were having fun. Though the sticky sweat made their clothing uncomfortably stuck to their skin, and ragged pants escaped through giggles, today did not feel normal. Something strange was happening today. </p><p>    When George woke up, all the servants seemed to have disappeared, and his father and mother were nowhere to be found. The knights and remaining house servants seemed frighten, and not even his dearest friend Clay knew why. But nobody told George anything, so he threw on his stained white blouse and ragged leather jeans, and dragged his friend outside into the garden. The banks were their favorite place to play, as they would always frolic in the lush grass or snatch out their small little hands for minnows in the brook. Unbeknownst to future responsibilities weighing heavily on their shoulders, as kids usually do. </p><p>    There was a big broad apple tree on top of that hill, with a carefully carved iron bench dotted at it’s side. George dreadfully loved that tree and that bench. He’d often stand on the tippy top with his fake paper crown, (mind you, he colored that by himself with his own pack of chalks. It was his most prized possession,) and take a gnarled stick and wave it around. As he mocked kingship, Clay would scour the branches similar to that of a spider, and perch on the branch that hung low just over George’s head. As if he dared someone to approach his play mate, for he’d ambush him. So Clay and George ruled over the ants next to the bench under the apple tree on top of the bank next to the brook and right by the forest nearly every afternoon.</p><p>    George paused, though, with his weak struggles. It was his mother, with a frown glued to her lineaments and a strange man not from around here, whom he did not recognize in the slightest. George rolled out from under Clay, only for his hands (they were bigger, just by a bit. Would they grow even bigger, he wondered?) to engulf the glossy eyed boy into a protective half hug. His strikingly green eyes, to George a dandelion piss yellow, trained on the very strange man and his mother. Was she crying? She looked like she was crying, George thought.</p><p>    They did not see the tensed little boys dirtied by the brook, intensely staring and deathly quiet. The strange man and the familiar woman began to talk, and quite frankly, George didn’t like what they were talking about.</p><p>“He’s too young, isn’t he?.” his mother asked the strange man in a fearful voice.</p><p>The man leaned against the Apple tree as the woman sat on the bench, “No, he is old enough. Boy is almost 12, he must commit.” </p><p>The man, his accent and his tone was disgusting, Clay decided that very moment, clutching George like a life line. He already knew what they were talking about. He wasn’t stupid.</p><p>The mother dabbed a handkerchief at her paled face, you could see the fine structure and curves of her hallow cheeks. Her chapped, thin lips narrowed as she spoke. “He has not trained, he needs to learn the duties he must fulfill.” She didn’t sound as sorrowful now, rather frustrated and worried.</p><p>The disgusting foreign man placed a hand on her shoulder and smiled softly, “He will start learning tomorrow.”</p><p>That was the first man Clay decided he would hate.</p><p>——————————————————————————</p><p>“Halt.”</p><p>    The loud clash of swords ceased, the blistering hot tearing at his skin. It was too hot for this, the bugs too loud and the sun too large. The brow of sweat wiped off his forehead, as he hilted his sword to the leather strap draping from his hip to his waist, adorned with pouches and notches.</p><p>That was the twenty second time Clay decided he hated the sun.</p><p>    The man before the blonde crowned with reddish pink hair pulled back into a gorgeously tied ponytail. He looked at the ground briefly, his calloused hands flexing into balled up fists, the veins popping out and relaxing again. His voice was like poisonous honey, smooth and threatening.</p><p>“You are distracted. Quit daydreaming.”</p><p> </p><p>     Clay snorted. Daydreaming? He already knew he was, but he was too stubborn to admit it. He crackled his knuckles and squeezed the palms of his hands together, and shook his head in lazy denial.</p><p>“No, I’m not,” the younger responded.</p><p>“You’re atrocious at lying, daydreamer,” the man with odd colored hair paused, “Dream.”</p><p>That was the one time Clay received his secondary name.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. A Benevolent Watcher</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which a future monarch is very lonely.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A longer chapter for you guys. I’m honestly surprised at how many kudos I got in just half a day. Thank you a lot!</p><p>By the way, Verizon sucks, my wifi glitched and I lost over twenty god forsaken paragraphs I’d written. I didn’t even take a screenshot of what it was. Thanks network provider.</p><p>:)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lonely.</p><p>That was often a word of which a petite, brown-haired boy thought of. </p><p>He was dreadfully lonely.</p><p>    Today was like no other. George had situated himself over the course of the long silent years quite nicely. His satin gown clung loosely to his frame as he sat up on the silken sheets of his bedding, a silver tray of tea before him. English black with a quarter pint of goats milk mixed in, and a single sugar cube. Exactly like that, every morning.</p><p>    After he changed into a silky, unwrinkled blouse and smoothed black trousers, he would put on his slippers and onto the balcony. It was a gorgeous scene, rolling valleys and hills that led into the small strip of forest that bordered the surrounding walls. It was made of alluring stone and cement, with architectural curves and carvings into the sides. There was a pair of dark blue curtains that swayed with the wind separating George’s room to the balcony. (Blue’s were an exceedingly common appearance to his tastes, it was the only clear untainted color he could see.)</p><p>    He would stretch and yawn, enjoying the softness of the winds playing with his tufts locks of hair, gently caressing his skin. But then he’d always look down. Leaning over the beautiful balcony for hours, watching the squires and knights train. His gaze was always severely focused on a starry eyed, determined blonde boy with hardened broad hands and a personality like a stallion. Sometimes it would drift to the black haired boy with an amber gaze, who was always seemingly ready to jump head first into a crossfire. He watched them, he watched them laugh and learn and grow up together.</p><p>George was a very lonely boy.</p><p>But Clay was lonely too.</p><p>————————————————————</p><p>    You would not normally expect such a bright young man to be lonely. He had the Commander, he had his friends, he had Nick. But it was not the same as the pretty little boy on the balcony. They kept an ushered secret, shared only between them. A dirty secret Clay both abhorred, but cherished. Especially so during the day when he stole glances from the pretty boy under the blistering sun. He loved it.</p><p>    But he didn’t like it when the pretty boy’s duties whisked him away from his perch above the balcony, no gaze trained on him any longer. It made him cold and lonely. He was lonely, after all. But that was Clay, the little lonely squire who just wanted his friend back. Not Dream. He was only Clay by day, and the other boy- no, man, by night. </p><p>    Squires usually received their new names by 18, when knighted. Clay was a special case. He received his from the Commander three years before the true age. Himself being 15, George 17. When taking oath, they swore their previous identity away and dedicated themselves to their monarch, willing to die. Funnily enough, Clay was already eager to swear his life away for the small brown-haired man. Maybe that was why he was deemed Dream on a chilly night at late dusk.</p><p>    Well, more likely for his skill. Just a year after separation from dearest George, he had to began his training to knightship at 10. He hated it, but he grew somewhat fond of his new friends. Especially Nick, his sharp tongue and goofy demeanor felt comfortable to him. The bright eyed, raven-haired boy with such a fiery spirit in him you’d think Hades had possessed him sometimes, was soon best friends with him. </p><p>   Two years after that, he began to steal to the moors he once frolicked in with a man possessing incredibly strange hair, tinted a light pink with a almost glossy magenta coloring, usually hilted in a ponytail or braid. Clay grew fond of him, bonding with a fierce competitive spirit that bloomed in the Commander’s strictly intense conditions. His soul possessed a taste for vengeance, heaven knows what for. But he found himself so idly invested in the arts of weapon and war, that it came naturally. He was obsessed with the instruments that brought victory to some, and misery to others. </p><p>    The Commander, formally known as Technoblade, and to few as Dave, nurtured Clay for three years in the art of battle before jokingly addressing him as Dream, and it stuck. And that was how it began, how by night he was something from a fantasy book, a master of the sword and the guider of perfect aim. Then, by day, he was the bubbly Clay whose eyes shone like the sun. It was a livid feeling, his curiosity never satiated, but guiding him down a path from no return he was blissfully unaware of. From that day, the competence of weaponry and war became his sole occupation.</p><p>     Though the fight of daylight ever boring, he noticed his interactions with the pretty boy on the balcony grew bolder and more apparent. George once even shyly waved at Clay, quickly looking downwards flushing a beautiful shade of light pink. The blush dusted his lineaments, his pale fragile face twisted in a embarrassed demeanor. That perplexed Clay, why he knew George’s behavior like the back of his hand. He ever only acted so docile towards new people and ‘adults’ (for when they were children.) He was no stranger, has George just forgotten about him? That thought made his heart spark with a new, unflattering emotion. He then spent the rest of the session in fearful wonder, half daydreaming. </p><p>By supper, Nick was more than ready to tease about it. He sat down by Clay on the rickety wooden picnic table, a hefty portion of meat and potatoes with gravy on his tray. He sent a smug smile his way.</p><p>“So what was that?” He asked inquisitively.</p><p>“What was what,” Clay shot back, not wanting to bring up the topic.</p><p>“You already know what I’m talking about, his majesty!” Nick exclaimed erratically, “Don’t think I see you gawking at him all day.”</p><p>The green-eyes boy snorted in annoyance, “Shut up.”</p><p>The boy pursed his lips, clasping his hands together leaning on the table. He fluttered his eyelashes and pitched his voice higher, “Ohhh my liege you’re so sexy, oh heavens! You waved at ME?!” Nick carried on making a kissy face, “Time to daydream and not pay attention to the sparring session.” </p><p>Clay forcefully bumped his shoulder, eating a forkful of food, “Don’t talk about him like that you moron. He just waved at me.”</p><p>He dramatically sighed, wolfing down a few bites of the potatoes. “You’re so boring Clay. Lighten up a bit!”</p><p>He waved him off, “Actually I’ll be something else pretty soon. Maybe then I won’t be boring.”</p><p>Nick’s face brightened up and gave a dorky grin, “Oh right! The knightship is in a few days. What do you plan on being called?”</p><p>The taller boy shrugged, “You’ll see. What about you? What dumbass name did you come up with?” </p><p>He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and stood up on the bench, poised dramatically. He puffed out his chest and raised a fist in the air, glowering, “Sir Sapnap of Wisceria!”</p><p>Clay dropped his fork and laughed, similar to that of a steaming kettle, “That sounds stupid! What does it even mean?”</p><p>“ ‘Tis Pandas spelled backwards, uncultured rat!” Nick shouted dramatically, bringing his raised fist to cross his hand over his chest.</p><p>“Wouldn’t it be Sadnap then?”</p><p>“Be quiet!”</p><p>———————————————————</p><p>George woke with a start. It was today. That day.</p><p>A part of him desperately wished it wasn’t.</p><p>But he must fulfill his duties.</p><p>    Oh, how George hated his duties. That beautifully blistering day left him ruined for the rest of his life. He was whisked away from his best friend, and learned of his deathly sick father. He was old, and developed a horrible cancer that was slowly killing him. But George wasn’t old enough to be crowned king, he had to turn the age of twenty. So they decided they would locked the poor dying man for 8 years in his chambers, keeping him on the brink of death. It broke George’s heart in two, and oh how he cried. He had fond memories as a very young child with his elderly father. It wasn’t fair, for him nor George.</p><p>    But he had to carry on, he would be deemed the appropriate age in a month from today. Today being, ironically in his mind, the day his ‘friend’ (could he even call him that?) would gain the title of knight. He had grown into a fine man, well fed and bright smiles. His lofty dirty blonde hair grew softer curling around his face, his hands calloused with years of training for the day. George quickly waved away the thoughts, how scandalous was it to think of him in such detail! He should be ashamed.</p><p>    Brushing off the thought of Clay, he prepared for his day. He slipped on his best white dress blouse, and his thin slender dark blue-black leggings. Pearly black dress shoes slipped over silk socks, and he adorned himself with a few golden bracelets with a necklace clasped around his neck. He wrapped a dark royal blue cape against his back and a small, insignificant crown. </p><p>    He thought he looked rather dashing for a scrawny piece of meat like himself. He traced his pale, slender fingers over his jawline, and slipped on a pair of round white and black goggles, allowing for the world’s true colors to slip in sight. He, unfortunately, was colorblind. Though it usually didn’t interfere with a lot, he liked seeing the vibrant greens of the landscapes and drafts of colors dotted beyond the forest. </p><p>    As per usual, he slipped himself on the balcony, and completely forgot about the knights’ grounds below his feet. He especially didn’t see the emerald-eyed boy gawking up at his figure. Clay was blown away, to say the least. He looked completely enveloped in grace, royally gorgeous. There wasn’t any better way to say it. The way the wind cradled his cape and twirled his hair. The small thin smile, ever so light pink, paved on his expression. The best way to describe it, was if everything blissful and happy in the world had possessed a person.</p><p>Clay couldn’t dwindle for long, though. As much as he wanted to soak up the sheer handsomeness of the man before him, he made a vow. A vow to both himself, George, and the Commander. By the time today was over he would not be the same man, he would not be Clay. He would be Dream, and goodness knows what Dream would be like. Maybe they’d be exactly the same, but with just the skill of war on their hands. Maybe Dream would be nice, or cruel- or just Clay. It occurred to him the most likely option was nothing would change but his name. But the idea of being someone different completely made him ecstatic.</p><p>So he took one last longing glance at George, and quickly made his way to the knight chambers. He situated himself on his bedding, placed on a hay mat on a frame. He wondered for a while, inquisitively wrinkling his nose. The Commander promised him a gift, something so grandly rare was it that he gave gifts, so it was natural for his curiosity to heighten to anticipation. He slipped on his thick leather boots with iron clads embedded at the back.</p><p>    Then, there was a clink of heavy boots and a knock at the wall. The Commander leaned against the doorframe, with a satchel in his hand. His amber gaze bore into Clay’s green one. He stood up with haste, and looked up with glossy eyes. The satchel in the other’s leather gloves hand was placed in his own. He open it with rapidity, and took out the object inside.</p><p>It was a white porcelain mask with two black dots and an upwards curve.</p><p>That was the last time Clay was himself.</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. An Ushered Secret</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which a strange man situates himself.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Did I go away for several months only to return with a completely different plot? Maybe, but I’ll do this fic because I’m too unbothered to start another. Lol thanks for putting up with my crap. &lt;3</p><p>(Posting is SO inconsistent don’t hurt me.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Every time the cladded footsteps walked by, it frightened George.</p><p>The ceremony went by like a breeze, other than the impending doom of watching men and women swear their lives on him. George would rather prefer not to hear the words, “My life is in your hands.” Especially from a bunch of living weapons. People who carved their lives on bows, arrows, and swords.</p><p>They had all lined up against the flowering wisteria, curling above the broken columns. A diverse array of fighters were shown, there were big, small, thin and plump, focused and scared. In particular, George found himself casting glances at the man in the white mask. It looked rather terrifying, in his defense. A poorly drawn smile plastered on a ceramic disk gave off a sense he couldn’t put his finger on.</p><p>Throughout the event, the young monarch swore them in, one by one. All the way down to the man with the mask. His throat felt dry as bones, and a bead of sweat escaped on his face. It was an awfully hot day to be doing this, but what could you do? The hilt of a sword lay on the ground, as George took two fingers and placed them on the masked man’s head. He whispered a prayer, and a strong voice sounded out.</p><p>“Glory to George. I swear my being unto yours, my life is in your hands.”</p><p>Georges’ fingers quickly retracted themselves, and his shoulders tensed. The man he watched for the past years and grew up with was kneeling at his feet. What an odd sight that would be, to watch. The brunette finally got a good look at this man, when he stood to bow, towering over a foot over him. His broad, calloused hands shifted the porcelain to reveal a small smile, and glittering verdant eyes. It was initially a happy expression, but to George it looked nearly placid, in a daunting manner.</p><p>That was how George, the future king of a land filled with vegetation and hope, found himself barricading his bedroom door.</p><p>Of course the masked man, whomst George did not know his professional name, would insist to be stationed right outside his vicinity. Wether it would be outside his bedroom door, near the balcony, at the end of the dining hall, anywhere the monarchs’ footsteps touched. Now, perhaps he was overreacting, because the young man with the mask wasn’t there all the time. Rather a quarter, alternating with three other people. But it quite felt like he was always there and George found that to be a very valid concern.</p><p>So valid of a concern, that when the man was outside his bedroom, he carefully blocked the door with a bookshelf. Now, the sheer strength he saw from the vigorous training under all that cloth could probably overcome the blockade, but it made the brunette feel safer. And, to a George, that was the best he was going to get.</p><p>He sat down in his satin, luxurious bed, and picked out a nice book on Greek mythology. He would carefully put on his gold-rimmed reading glasses, and treat the book as if it was a child. Each shift, every flip of the page, treated with care and etiquette. George absorbed himself in the book, finding each line and word fascinating. So utterly into the book, he didn’t hear the soft raps at the door. Nor did he hear it being cracked and the shift of the book shelf.</p><p>———————————————————————————————————————————</p><p>Clay decided that he was no longer himself. </p><p>After watching the ceremony in the East gardens of the castle take place, after seeing the expressions the pretty boy on the balcony would make up close, he decided it. George was not George, so Clay was not Clay. George would be King, Clay would be Dream. A pawn on the monarch’s chess board, though he hoped it wouldn’t be that way.</p><p>Clay- or rather, Dream, embraced himself, in an almost concerning manner. He found that the mask empowered mystery and fear into others, and it sure scared the devil out of Nick. His previously lanky stance grew bulky and tall, reaching a height of 6’3. His soft hands turned hard, as well has his gaze. He almost liked it. He almost got giddy over the idea of future scars and wars. But heavens, he wasn’t a sadist, so he it almost baffled him why he felt this way.</p><p>So Dream, happy to not be Clay, became someone entirely new the moment George’s fingers lightly brushed over his mask, nearly touching his hair. What he’d give to feel those delicate, long fingers twist through the knots of his sunlight dipped locks. George, he concluded, was mesmerizing. Or perhaps he already knew that. Regardless, he jumped at the chance to be around him. </p><p>That is how Dream, the knight sworn to die for a man he’d known forever, found himself pressed against a bedroom door.</p><p>Dream most definitely heard the worried pacing in George’s room, and even more heard the movement of a large, wooden object shift outside the door. He tapped the basin of his mask in frustration. The pretty boy he always ogled at that sat on balcony suddenly treated him like a disease. On his shift next to his side, the pretty boy would ignore him entirely and stay at the very least a good six feet distance. Dream tried to tell himself it didn’t bother him. But it most certainly did, bringing back that unfortunate feeling of hurt inside of him.</p><p>So, after waiting for the concerned steps and murmurs to die down into a comfortable silence, he cracked the door and shifted the apparent closet out of the way. The large crack in the door led to a scene of wonder. George sitting cross legged on his bed, a book in hand, glasses on his face, looking ethereal. Dream took a small, careful step forward. No sign of movement.</p><p>So he advanced until he was inside the room. He sat on the floor, mimicking the brunettes position with care. His gaze trained on him through the eyeholes of his ceramic mask. He even shifted the covering to the side, for a full fledged view of the beauty splayed exactly 8 feet and 5 inches away from him. </p><p>One of the plethora of times Dream decided, George was worth the world.</p>
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